Crichton's glad right about now that Arthur can't see the string of horrified expressions that cross his face, first at how precious that glass is held in Arthur's hand, then the coughing, the panic at spilling, and then... the flowers. His heart is beating so manically it feels like it wants to gallop off in two different directions at once.

Okay. Okay. Calm down. One problem at a time.

"Arthur! Frell!" He drops down on his knees beside Arthur, one hand laid protectively against his back. "Shit. You're... coughing up flower petals."